New Mexico Mercury

What I would not give
to be lost again
in the gold, hot summer woods
of my eleventh year,
when my parents took me
to go out picking blueberries;
I walked too far
into the woods by Echo Lake,
away from the cool of their voices,
took a turn to my left and ahead
and then found a second path,
one mother and father did not tell of;
I walked for as long as a song
until I couldn’t hear anything
but whatever lights upon the leaves
in the lost and humming summer
of bees and snapping green;
I was wanting to find blueberries
and discovered my own disappearance:
few things in this life
have brought to my soul
such exhilarating terror.

Bliss, I mean.

I meant to say bliss.